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PEN PICTURES 
of the PLAINS 



BY 



/ 



SARAH ELIZABETH HOWARD 




DENVER 

THE REED PUBLISHING COMPANY 
1902 






THE Library of 

CONGRESS, 
Two Copies Received 

FEB "'3 1903 

CcivQ^ril Entry • 
CUSSCX^ XXc. Ho. 
COPY B. 



COPYRIGHTED 1 902 
BY SARAH ELIZABETH HOWARD 



«* ce c c 



'O 

vi^ 



C 






TO THOSE WHO LEFT LOVED HOMES AND 
FRIENDS IN SETTLED PORTIONS OF OUR 
LAND^ TO WIN NEW HOMES AND FRIENDS 
UPON ''the GREAT AMERICAN DESERT/' 
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED BY 
THE AUTHOR. 



THANKS ARE DUE TO GOOD HOUSEKEEPING 
AND "sunshine" FOR COURTESIES EXTEND- 
ED; ALSO FOR DATA GATHERED FROM "tHE 
UTE WAR." 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Prairie Idyl 

Introduction 1 1 

The River 12 

The Movers 13 

Dreams 14 

The New House 18 

A Prairie Scene 20 

The Home Making 21 

The Wind Storm 24 

A Visitor 25 

The Dry, Dry Earth 36 

Rattlesnakes Z7 

Irrigation 38 

The Colony Fence 42 

The Colony 42 

Mid-Summer 46 

Lost 49 

The Fearful Night 52 

Grief's Load 54 

The Agency 57 

The Indians 60 

The Massacre 64 

The Captives 66 

Prairie Rovers 78 

The Bronco Breakers 79 

Wild Horses 82 

Wild Horse lerry's Story 84 

The Blizzard 87 

The Round-Up 99 

In Later Times 103 



The Yucca 109 

Prairie Dog Town no 

The Mountain Stream 112 

A May-Time Picture 113 

Songs for the Months 117 

Long's Peak 123 

A Sunset Scene 124 

A Winter Morning 125 

Victory 126 

The Mountains Speak to Me 127 

Twilight 128 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



On the Cache La Poudre Frontispiece "^ 

Photo by Mrs. M. A. Bunker, Greeley 

Crystal Spray i6 

Among the Farms 24 

Photo by F. E. Baker, Greeley 

The Snowy Range 32 

Photo by F. E. Baker 

The Meeker Home 40 

Photo by Mrs. M. A. Bunker 

Prairie Rovers 48 

Photo by Mrs. M. A. Bunker 

Nathan C. Meeker 56 

Miss Josephine Meeker 64 

Ouray and Chipeta 72 

A Bucking Bronco 80 

Photo by W. G. Walker, Cheyenne 

Public School Buildings 88 

Photo by F. E. Baker 

Chasing a Steer 96 

Photo by W. G. Walker 

Mrs. Arvilla D. Meeker 104 

Photo by E. S. Nettleton 



Diverting the Water from the North Poudre'. ... 112 
Snow Scene in May 120 

Photo hy F. E. Baker 

Deep in the Heart of Rocky Mountain Wilds. . . 126 

Photo by Smith-Hassell Co., Denver 



PEN PICTURES 
OF THE PLAINS 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 



INTRODUCTION 

A simple story of the plains ; 
Writ long ago in hearts that lightly beat 
With love and joy, and hope ; or dumbly ached 
With anguish and despair. A simple tale 
That has no call to be, except, that it 
Was lived, and may be lived a thousand times 
Again. Small reason, one may say, to pen 
The lines. And yet all lives flow not in strong 
Deep currents; many rivulets must feed 
The powerful stream; with countless little 

deeds 
The work of one short day is filled ; and lives 
Grow sweet and strong by faithful following 



12 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Of dull, hard lines that never rise above 
The commonplace. 

THE RIVER 

A still bright day in March. 
The tiresome, noisy wind forgets to blow. 
The sun, from out a sky of cloudless blue. 
Pours Summer's warmth upon the prairies, 

bare. 
And brown, and dusty. Hushed and lifeless, 

all 
The scene. Gnarled trees outline the river's 

course, 
And stretch their naked branches high, as 

though 
Appealing to the smiling Heavens, for gift 
Of verdure's grace, to hide their rugged forms. 

The Cache la Poudre, now a shrunken stream. 
Glides peacefully along, and murmurs low. 
As placidly it winds through banks deep cut 
By torrents rushing over sandy soil, 



APRAIRIEIDYL I3 

Or broadens out, to lave a pebbly shore. 
The wild impetuosity is gone, 
That freed it from its mountain home, and sent 
It plunging, foaming down, exultant, wild, 
Down, down, past boulders broad, that block 

and fret, 
But cannot hold; down, down, the sides of hills 
Rock- faced, through wooded vales, and on, and 

on. 
To gain the restful quiet of the plains. 
Where it may almost pause at times, to note 
The beauty of the azure sky, the sun's 
Glad light, the fleeting clouds, the moon's mild 

beams. 
The stars that gem the midnight sky, and in 
Its placid waters mirror them, in grand 
And lovely pictures, framed by shadowy trees. 

THE MOVERS 

Along the road, that follows near the course 
The river takes, or climbs the bluff to find 
A shorter path, appears a wagon, wide 



14 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

And long, and loaded well with household 

goods ; 
Two horses, broad of back and heavy limbed. 
The wagon draw. A nest, of mattresses 
And pillows piled, well planned for when the 

load 
Was built, make safe and full of ease the ride 
For those who snuggle there, — a laughing babe, 
A prattling girl, a manly boy, and one 
Who watches o'er, as mothers do, the three 
To her so dear ; and he, who holds above 
The horses guiding lines, and cheers them on 
In tones they understand, — his look of proud 
Content, his interest in all, proclaim 
His ownership — love-granted — of the group. 

DREAMS 

The driver and his team, have traveled oft, 
The road so long and wearisome ; but all 
The way is new to her, who thinks to see 
At every turn, or from each hill top gained. 
The lone, new house, that is to be her home. 



APRAIRIEIDYL 15 

She backward looks. There Hes the little town 
Whose buildings, in the distance seem like toys 
Upon a mammoth table spread ; and there 
She fancies that she still can see the one 
That was her home, the while the house upon 
The plains was being built. 

Again she looks 
Around. Upon the right, the left, above, 
Below, there meets her unaccustomed sight, 
The same monotony of earth and sky. 
The cradled motion, and the drowsy air, 
Have caused the little ones to sleep. 
The weary mother veils her eyes to shield 
Them from the glaring light, and gently, sleep 
From her too, wins all consciousness of things 
At hand. The prairie sights and sounds, no 

more 
She sees, or hears. And yet the active brain 
Sleeps not; for dreaming, she beholds again 
What in her waking hours she scarce dares trust 
Herself to think about ;— a spot most loved. 
Most dear, — her childhood's home— unmindful 

that 



l6 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

The half of one vast continent is stretched 
Between herself and it. She sees the low, 
Wide spreading house, whose massive beams, 

a hand, — 
Her father's hand — hewed long ago from oaks 
He felled to clear a spot where it might stand. 
She plays again, beneath the giant trees 
That like loved sentinels, were left to guard 
The door ; whose sheltering branches interlaced. 
And made a royal canopy above 
The play-ground of her youth; and whose 

broad leaves 
The sunlight and the moonlight made to dance 
In shadows on her chamber floor. She sees 
The windows, over which the roses climb ; 
The garden walk, the flowers her mother loved 
And tended. Then she sees that other home, — 
The one she entered when a bride, and where 
Her little children came to her, and made 
A happy life more blest and brighter still. 
More plainly than aught else she sees, or seems 
To see, the growing things; the grass that 

clothes 
With richest green, the little eminence 




CRYSTAL SPRAY. 
"Shall coax his treasures down the rocky sides 
In dancing rivulets." ^Fage 23. 



APRAIRIEIDYL IJ 

Where stands the low, old-fashioned house, — 

the old 
Red house. The daisies nod, as if to say, 
''Come, let us tell your fortune, as of yore." 
The red, round blossoms of the clover, load 
The air with fragrance, well remembered; and 
The rich deep-colored buttercups sway back 
And forth upon their slender stems, and tempt 
Her once again to pluck their yellow blooms, 
And try the old-time test, that tells "Who loves 
The butter." More than all the rest, the trees 
A welcome lend. The pines that shade the 

drive 
Upon the east, a gentle murmur, soft 
And low, send forth. The elms and maples 

from 
The western side, their branches wave, until 
Each blithesome leaf is dancing in the air. 
The spire-like firs, that guard on either hand 
The door, in sighing whispers, welcome her, 
Whose gentle word forbade the cruel axe 
To lay their beauty low. Above the door, 
The jessamine hangs drooping, as of old. 
Around the windows twine — a living frame — 



l8 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

The woodbine, free to thrust its tendrils in 
Each weather-beaten crack, and hold its place 
With sturdy will. With joy, surprise, she 

notes 
The trumpet vine, her hand had planted ; what 
A growth ! It spreads its glossy leaves upon 
The roof, and clustered blossoms crown it 

there ; 
Her hand she stretches forth to pluck one 

flower, — 
So little mindful are we in our dreams 
Of time and space — and speedily, the scene 
Is changed. The horses by the driver stopped, 
Upon the summit stand of rising ground. 
There halted that the better she may view 
What lies before. The ceasing motion wakes 
The sleeper, speeds the dream. 

THE NEW HOUSE 

"Look, Margaret!" 
Her husband's voice she hears ; across her eyes 
She lightly draws a hand to hide the tears, — 



APRAIRIEIDYL IQ 

The smarting, blinding tears, that sprang unbid 
When she awoke, and knew that she had 

dreamed. 
For Roland must not know,— he must not guess 
How much she misses trees, and flowers, and 

grass,— 
For seldom does the prairie wear a robe 
Of green, as bright, as lovely, as the fields 
She used to roam, — nor must he know how 

much 
She misses and desires to see the dear. 
Familiar faces. Now he speaks again : 
*Took, Margaret! There stands the house— 

the house 
Where my dear wife shall make for me, a 

home." 
Across the prairie, scarce a mile away, 
The new, unfinished house stood, all alone. 
Much taller than it really was, it looked. 
Because no other objects clustered near,— 
No trees, no buildings, only, half the way 
Between the wagon and the house, there stood 
A ranchman's settlement. A little house. 



20 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

A barn and sheds, corrals, and ditches plowed, 
Told that it must have been a home, a year 
At least. Here lived a German family, — 
Newcomers there — but still old settlers in 
The West, since first the prairie schooners 

trailed 
At snail-like pace — ^by goaded oxen drawn — 
Across the dreary, desert sea of sand. 

A PRAIRIE SCENE 

A pretty portion of the scene lay just 
Below. A basin broad and deep, worn in 
The prairie's undulating levelness 
By rushing waters in the ages past ; 
Down through its center, sang a silvery stream. 
Meandering from right to left ; the grass 
Sprang up on either side, and by its bright, 
Delightful green, declared the distance that 
Its searching roots had quenched their burning 

thirst 
As the cool waters rippled by. Adown 
A steep decline, across the basin's floor, 



PRAIRIE IDYL 21 



Now hiding at the Uttle ford, its path 
As winding as the streamlet's way, the road 
Gleamed white, until it disappeared upon 
The farther bluff. 

The beauty of the scene 
A glance took in,— its loneliness as well. 
The western sun now flooded all with rays 
Whose softened yellow light, betokened that 
The day was nearly spent, and urged the need 
Of haste. Again they journeyed on ; and all 
The way was filled with plans, that when ma- 
tured, 
Should make the prairie home a lovely place,— 
A spot to rest the eye upon,— a real 
Oasis in the desert. 

THE HOME MAKING 

Days have passed ; 
The making of the home goes slowly on; 
From chaos, order steadily evolves; 
And yet, so incomplete the state of things. 
Within, without, that strength and patience 
scarce 



22 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Can bear the call incessant, for the work 
Of hands, that falls upon so few. How great 
The task to make a home, when every brick 
And stick, and stone, that goes to build a house, 
Must be transported miles and miles, by man 
And beast. Where deep are hid the springs that 

must 
Be found, and forced to yield their sparkling 

gift 
Of water, clear and cool. Where not a grain 
Of wheat bestows its bearded wealth, till from 
The river to the spot where it must grow 
A channel has been made to carry there 
The snow and ice that Winter stored within 
The mountain fastnesses, when the warm 

breath 
Of May and June, unloosing his cold clasp. 
Shall coax his treasures down the rocky sides 
In dancing rivulets. Where e'en the soil, — 
The cacti-guarded soil, — sun-baked and hard, 
Forbids the sharpened plow to turn its sod. 
Until its surface has received a flood, — 
Descended from the clouds, or lacking that, 
A flood drawn from the river's tide. 



APRAIRIEIDYL 2$ 

But Still, 

Each day some comfort adds. Each day be- 
holds 
Some task begun, or carried forward. Time 
And thought, and strength are given. In re- 
turn 
There comes a welcome sense of homelikeness ; 
Homelike, and yet not home. What wonder 

that 
With eyes tear-blinded, Margaret should ask 
Herself, "Can this bare country ever make 
A home for me? For me, who loved so well 
The stately oaks about my childhood's home, 
The stretch of pines where I might wander 

hours. 
And hours, delighted with their fragrance, and 
Their gentle murmurings, and find enough 
To hold me spellbound, in the tiny leaves 
That trailed across the dim aisles at their feet, — 
A tracery of green, against the soft. 
Brown carpet, made of fallen needles ? There, 
Low hills and vales o'ergrown with trees that 

held 
Aloft, in Spring, their tasseled, petaled flowers, 
And waved in Summer, dainty robes of green; 
Where in the Autumn, choicest tints of gold 



24 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

And scarlet, hid the bounteous harvest spread, 
Of nuts and fruits, and made the landscape 

rich 
With pictures, words may not portray. And 

here. 
No tree in sight, save where the cottonwoods 
Upon the river's bank — a mile away, — 
Find water so that they can thrive and grow ; 
No sheltered nooks where hide surprises rich 
With Flora's gifts. Naught, but the sun- 
browned plains. 
Wind-swept and desolate. Can this be home ?" 

THE WIND STORM 

The moisture of early spring has made 
It possible to plow the ground and seed 
It ; but for weeks no rain has fallen on 
The thirsty, sun-dried land. The stubborn soil 
Resists the plow. The seeds refuse to grow. 
For lack of Nature's tears, their hearts will not 
With sympathy enlarge, and opening, send 
Their tender sprouts to bless the land. 

For days 
The clouds have floated from the mountain 
tops 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 25 

And Spread upon the sky, their folds, so full 
Of promise; then retaining all their wealth 
Of rain-drops, coveted and needed, furled 
Their banners dark, and sailed from sight. 

The wind 
Now boisterous and rioting, lifts from 
The earth, a cloud of dust, and whirling sticks. 
And straws ; it pelts with gravel stones that cut 
Like sleet, the luckless one, unsheltered from 
Its wrath. From out the sandy soil it tears 
The wheat, that early rains have sprouted ; veils 
The nearer objects with its stolen cloud. 
And shrieks and howls, like some mad spirit, 

free 
To do its worst. 

A VISITOR 

Now Margaret, on such 
A morn, half terrified, alone, except 
The fellowship of her own little ones. 
Heard open wide, as if wind flung, a door, 
And hastening there to close it 'gainst the blast. 
Upon her threshold met, all scant of breath. 
And panting from her battle with the storm. 
Her German neighbor woman, knitting work 



26 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

In hand, and joyed to see her there, — her words 
Of welcome feebly told how much. 

"I saw," 
The neighbor said, — her accent scarce betrayed 
Her foreign birth, — ''your husband on his way 
To town ; and when the wind began to blow, 
I knew right well how dreary it must seem 
To you; and so I came to help you keep 
Your courage up; if you are not afraid. 
You're braver far, than I, when first I saw 
The air so filled with sweepings of the earth." 
*'Have you then lost all fear?" 

"The noisy wind 
It wearies me ; it wears my patience out ; 
It sifts the dust through every crevice in 
The house ; and yet, it seldom gives much cause 
For fear; the mountains are so near to us. 
We think they break its force." 

"Is this dry spring 
Unusual, or have you seen the like 
Before?" 

"Aye, many times ; if you had had 
Your ditches made and turned the water on 
The sod before 't was plowed, then would your 

seeds 
Have started. One cannot do all things in 



APRAIRIEIDYL 27 

A minute. Well it was for you, the soil 
Was wet enough to plozv. Now, your good 

man 
Will furrow out the corn, and irrigate 
Between the rows, spread gentle floods upon 
Alfalfa sown, and wheat, and you shall see 
How water makes the green oases in 
The desert." 

''How long has this bare country been 
Your home?" 

''Why, long enough to make a home 
And lose it. Long enough to start anew 
With younger people, like yourself. I left 
My childhood's home, where high the Alps up- 
lift 
Their snow-crowned heads, a bride; and now 

I count 
My children's children, kiss their rosy cheeks 
And feel their clinging arms around my neck." 
"Please tell me, friend, what made you choose 

this land 
To be your own? I question, for I love 
To hear another's voice; 'tis music in 
My loneliness. And then I fain would know 
How other women lived, who knew in truth 
The hardships of the pioneer." 



28 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

"Because 
We speak that language, people say that we 
Are Germans; just as truly might they call 
Us French. We came from Switzerland. The 

love 
Of liberty is in our veins, and that 
Is why we made America our choice. 
We thought to seek the western coast and make 
Our fortune in its mines of gold ; lut when 
The train of emigrants was formed, and well 
Upon the way, we heard that dread disease 
Was raging there. Our oxen crippled with 
The constant travel. Fertile lands around 
Us, tempted us to stay. We dropped behind. 
Our fellow travelers journeyed on, and we 
Were left alone, to make as best we could 
A living in Missouri's wilds. Four walls 
Of logs, without a floor or roof, was all 
The shelter that I had for months. 'Twas there 
My first born saw the light. We gathered 

'round 
Us, in the years we settled there, a few 
Of life's necessities, but little of 
Its comforts. Sickness laid its hold upon 
My husband. Strength for work, no longer did 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 29 

He have. There seemed but one thing left for 

us, — 
To seek for health amid new scenes. We then 
Had heard a little of the healing power 
Of Colorado's air, so light and dry; 
And so we rounded up our little herd, 
And once again a prairie schooner was 
Our home, — our home on wheels. We traveled 

weeks 
And months, until we saw, far in the west. 
The mountain tops, snow white, against the 

sky; 
And still, another day ; and then at night 
We camped beside the Platte; and there with 

grass 
And water for our stock, again we tried 
To make a home." 

"Were you so fortunate 
As I ? Had you a neighbor ?" 

"On the creek 
Were ranches where white settlers lived, too far 
Away to be much help or company. 
I had some visitors you might not care 
To know. The Indians often passed our way 
And seldom failed to call." 



30 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

''And were you not 
Afraid of them?" 

"Sometimes ; but then, I knew 
Too much to let them find it out ; I learned 
To raise my voice and scold until they thought 
I was the bravest woman on the creek. 
You know we had no railroads then; we 

bought 
Supplies in Denver ; sold our produce there ; 
It took a week to make the trip; the men 
From all the ranches went together. Once, 
When they were gone, a band of red men passed 
Our way, and knowing that the women were 
Alone, they frightened and annoyed us much. 
They were Arapahoes, returning to 
Their camp upon Crow Creek. I knew their 

tribe 
Because they told me — pointed at themselves 
And proudly said, "Me Rapho!" Groups of 

two 
And three my callers were ; I dared 
Not feed them ; if I did, I knew they would 
Return, not once, but many times. Outside 
The house I hid all eatables, except 
A loaf of bread, to give my children should 
The red men stay too long ; and that I placed 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 3I 

Among our clothing- in a trunk. When they 
Insisted on a search for food, — then wide 
I opened empty closets, boxes, jars. 
With hands not gentle, saying with a voice 
Made loud and scolding, '^See! there's nothing 

here, 
Or here! or here! So brave and unconcerned 
Was I, they little guessed how much with fear 
I trembled : this was not what the}'' wished 

to hear. 
And one old dirty brave held up his hands, — 
With fingers spreading wide, — the way they 

count 
By tens, and tens, and said, "Heap Injun, come 
And kill white squaw ;" and then I showed no 

sign 
Of fear; in truth I was not much afraid: 
I knew that when they meant to kill, they came 
At just before the break of day, and then 
They did not parley. Once, three red men 

came. 
And shouted, ''Sleepee wigwam!" "No!" I 

said, 
"You can't sleep here! Your wigwam is on 

Crow — 
Go there !" I held the door fast shut, and was 



2i2, PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

So firm, they laughed and went away. I had 
Less trouble than the other women did 
With them. That proved 'twas wiser not to 

yield 
To their demands." 

''How were they dressed?" 
"They wore 
In winter, robes of buffalo; and in 
The summer, blankets; not much else; but if 
A brave should wear a hat, he usually 
Wore two, placed one above the other. One, 
He must have been a chief, wore feathers in 
His hair, and crossed his breast and wound his 

waist 
With strings of silver dollars, flattened out. 
And lapped upon each other, till they must 
Have been a heavy weight to bear. We feared 
Them really, when the civil war broke out ; 
Bad men— deserters and the like, — then put 
Them up to doing harm. 'Twas then the Plum 
Creek massacre occurred, and no one knew 
But what an Indian was behind each knoll 
To shoot him down. It made my blood run 

cold 
The danger we were in ; and when we had 
To stay alone, — the children and myself, — 



APRAIRIEIDYL 33 

We dared not sleep beneath our roof, for fear 
It might be burned above our heads. I stole 
Out after dark and made a place for them 
To sleep among the weeds and willows by 
The river ; often dared not leave them there 
One night, but took them up and carried them 
Asleep, to other places,— sometimes moved 
Them more than once before the night was 

gone. 
I early taught them all to know and write 

Their names, that it might help us find them, 
should 

The red men steal them from us." 

"Trials that 

I thought were mine, fade into nothingness 

Beside the hardships it has been your lot 

To bear," said Margaret. 

"In every life 

Hard places come, and mine has had its share. 

You have not told me yet, how well you like 

Your house, and if it seems like home to you." 

"Since living here the sun has risen in 
The east," said Margaret; ''in that it seems 
Like home ; before, I was so lost and turned 
About, it seemed to me as if the sun rose in 



34 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

The north; but when the house was being 

built,— 
The house I had not seen until 'twas fit 
To shelter us, my husband said such words 
As these, 'The kitchen faces to the east. 
And there you'll have the morning sun.' Or 

these, 
'The view is lovely from the sitting-room; 
The southern windows look upon Pike's 

Peak— 
You'll see it when the sun is low, — and all 
The western sky is cut in scallops by 
The snow-crowned mountain peaks against its 

blue.' 
So was I righted as to compass points. 
And then, I have my loved ones here; for me, 
Not Heaven itself, could be a home, were they 
Not there. If one who had authority. 
Should say to me, 'To-day go back and live 
Among the scenes you love so well,' I would 
Not heed the words, because I am so glad 
To see my husband gaining health. To have 
Him know the joy of breathing full, free 

breaths — 
The gift that Colorado's wondrous air 
Bestows upon those sufferers who seek 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 35 

Her plains and mountains, while there yet is 

hope 
For them. And yet, in spite of all, there comes 
At times, a longing for the dear old home, 
The dear, dear faces, till it makes me sad, 
And easily the tears would come, but that 
I hold them back. 

My husband ? Yes, he liked 
Here from the first; he says there's something 

in 
The novelty and freedom of this life. 
That suits him well. But I imagine that 
Its hardships wear upon the women more 
Than on the men. The loneliness, and lack 
Of comforts that the settler must endure, — 
They feel more deeply. Care of children and 
Of home, so often shuts them in from change 
They need and would enjoy.'' 

With now and then 
A pause to listen to the howling wind, 
The neighbors chatted on ; and in the skilled 
Accustomed hands the knitting grew apace ; 
While Margaret found work to busy her 
In caring for her house and little ones. 
With wonder eyes, young Earl had listened to 
The tales of frontier life ; but longing for 



2>6 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

The wind to cease that he might ride upon 
His pony's back, he took his seat where he 
Could watch the storm, and was the first to see 
The dust clouds lessen, note the welcome lulls. 
And know the storm would soon be o'er. The 

veil 
Of dust laid low, the sun shines forth upon 
The wind-swept land. The piles of rubbish 

found 
In sheltered corners, tell how thoroughly 
The sweeping has been done. The absent one, 
Wind-tossed and weary, now returns. The kind 
And thoughtful neighbor seeks her home. 

Night falls 
Upon a restful quiet, sweet as sleep. 

THE DRY, DRY EARTH 

The days are warm, excepting when the sun. 
Veiled by the passing clouds, is lost to sight; 
Or when it sinks behind the mountain tops 
To gladden other lands, and leaves the night 
To reign. Oft, then a sudden coolness 

comes, — 
The breath from snow-bemantled, frigid peaks. 



APRAIRIEIDYL 37 

Spring, slowly wakes to life, scant plants and 

seeds 
That slumbered in the dry, dry earth. And 

still 
No rain. 

Each day the work with plow and spade 
Goes on, and greater length is added to 
The channels that shall draw the water from 
The mountain stream, to quench the dry Earth's 

thirst, 
And resurrect the seeds entombed, and burst 
Their bonds, and bid them spring to larger life 
In God's glad sunshine. 

RATTLESN AKES 

Longer days and warmth, 
Awaken slumberers less welcome than 
Unfolding leaves. Half dormant, from the sod, 
Plow-turned, they crawl. In sunny spots they 

coil 
And sleep. Where thorns and color hide them 

well. 
Through cactus beds they glide. Across the 

paths 
Oft trod by human feet, they slowly drag 



38 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Their mottled length. Disturbed; — defiant, 

clear, 
And shrill, their whirring rattle warns ; 
And quickly coiled, they spring their length to 

strike 
With poison fangs, the angry, fatal blow. 

The enmity declared in Eden, still 

Exists ; and man shall bruise the serpent's head, 

Till, overcome at last, the hidden foe 

No more, with evil threatens childhood's play. 

Or him, who walks upon, or tills the soil. 

IRRIGATION 

At last the channels have been made that shall 
Convey the thirsty land, the cooling draft. 
That rippling, dimpling, on its busy way. 
Bids hidden seed and fainting plant, take heart 
And grow. The stream that foamed and fret- 
ted down 
The mountain side, a rushing torrent made 
By melting snows too strong and turbulent 
To keep within the river's banks, full well 
May spare the portion of its flood, required 
To make the sun-baked prairie green and glad. 



APRAIRIEIDYL 39 

Barred from the river's swollen tide, it turns 

No longer where it wayward will, but on 

It speeds through channels skillfully devised; 

And smaller streams, by its free bounty fed. 

Divide and sub-divide, till o'er the land 

The sparkling water sings through banks, 

flower-fringed. 
And verdant. 

Oh! the joy! the joy! when first 
The long-expected, welcome water, came ; 
Came creeping, rippling, dancing, singing. 

through 
The earth-brown, dusty ways. 

All things grew glad. 
The tiny seeds that long had dormant lain,— - 
Awoke to life, and joyous, sent their green 
Leaves forth; fair heralds of the fragrant 

flowers 
They soon would wave in air. 

On pliant stem, 
The dainty primrose nods and smiles at its 
Reflected image. Balls of snow-white bloom, 
Amid the leafage green, are trailed along 
The banks, till all the air is heavy with 
The odor sweet, abronia delights 



40 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

To yield. The scarlet mallows gleams and 

glows, 
And countless unnamed blossoms scent the air. 
The cactus, from its guarded citadel, 
Defiant, throws its banners out, and seems 
Exultant that, unlike its rivals gay. 
It thrives if water be withheld. In long. 
Straight rows of green, distinct and bright, 

against 
The brown, brown earth, its peaceful blades, 

the corn 
Upholds. The water that the thirsty earth 
Absorbed on either side the buried seed. 
Has done its silent work. The acres to 
Alfalfa sown, grow green, enlivened by 
The gentle floods ; and all take heart again. 
The garden plants upspring, and seem to vie, 
One with the other, in attempts to add 
The inches to their length or height ; so well 
The foot baths and the sun baths suit them all. 

Thus water works its wonders in a land 
Where scorching days, and dewless nights 

dry to 
A crisp, the native grass upon the plains ; 
And as the standing grass is turned to hay. 







s -^ 



s^ 



H H 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 4I 

Imprison in each part, — each leaf and stem, — 
The juices sweet, that have collected there; 
And when the wintry storms, and bitter winds 
Prevail, the quadrupeds that roam the vast 
Expanse, — forlorn and shelterless, — find there, 
The food that makes it possible -for them 
To live without the care of man. 

So lived 
The shaggy, bellowing herds of buffalo 
That vanished from their old-time grazing 

ground 
Before the tide of empire's onward march. 
And left no trace that they had ever lived, 
Except the hollows in the ground, worn by 
Their clumsy wallowing in the mire ; or by 
The bleaching bones of their old patriarchs. 
That dropped from out the moving mass, near 

some 
Well-trodden path, and fell to rise no more. 
So water works its wonders in a land — 
A dreary, desert land, — till homes upspring, 
And verdure clothes the plains, — the barren 

plains — 
And Nature's face grows bright and glad with 

smiles ; 
And bounty blesses all. 



42 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

THE COLONY FENCE 

A stone's throw from 
The house there stood a fence that stretched 

long arms 
Around the Httle town and scattered homes, 
For fifty miles or more, protecting them 
As best it might, from animals turned loose 
By man, to roam the plains and live there as 
They could ; — vast herds of cattle all untamed. 
And bands of horses that had never known 
The breaker's bit. 

THE COLONY 

Within its boundaries 
Brave men and women sought to make their 

homes. 
And found a city that should stand in years 
To come, a monument to Temperance; — 
A place uncursed by rum. For this, they left 
Dear homes, kind friends, the opportunities 
And comforts of the east, and here, beyond 
The haunts of men, found room to work their 

will. 
A Moses, full of faith and courage led 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 43 

Them on. He chose the spot that was to be 

A land of promise unto all who came. 

Their household goods they gathered up and 

far 
They followed him. When first the desert 

plains 
They saw, some cursed aloud, and straightway 

turned 
Them back to Egypt's flesh-pots. Others said, 
"We saw the cost and counted it; we came 
To stay, and see this project through ; it holds 
A world of happy chances in it." Some 
Bewailed their lot, and moaned, that they had 

lost 
Their all in coming here, and so were forced 
To stay. 

With naught between them and the stars 
They set to work. A common shelter had 
Been made, and many gathered there until 
Their little houses could be built. With no 
Foundation — lacking brick and stone — they 

grew 
Like mushrooms from the soil — the little homes 
That meant so much to desert-stranded men 
And women. Far, their sight outreached the 

bonds 



44 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Of present insufficiencies. With faith 
So strong, it knew no letting down, despite 
The grumbler's curse, the scoffer's jeer, the 

taunts, 
And prophecies of ill, — the little band 
Of earnest people held their own. They laid 
The coming city out with generous width 
Of streets; reserved in central blocks the land 
For parks; gave bonds, and built a house for 

schools 
That far exceeded present needs, — yet told 
In language unmistakable, what way 
Their aspirations turned. 

Already, men 
Had drawn a little water from the creek. 
And tilled small gardens with its aid, upon 
The bottoms, near the river's banks ; but these 
Brave comers were the first to tap the stream 
Well toward its mountain source, and bid it 

spread 
Enlivening waters on the upland plains. 
Far from the river-bed; — the desert land, — 
That needed only this to aid the toil 
Of sturdy yeomen, ere a harvest rich 
And bountiful, should crown their labors and 



APRAIRIEIDYL 45 

Their hopes. Beneath all this they made a 

law, — 
Inserted clause of forfeiture in each 
And every deed of land they gave, — that he 
Who dared to sell fermented drinks, should lose 
His title to his land; and so they strove 
To make it sure the town should never know 
The curse that liquor traffic brings. Thus they 
Foundation laid for future good. Amid 
Discouragements both great and small, they 

worked 
And struggled on. Some came and went away ; 
And some remained; till from the restless tide 
Of human life, the colony began 
To grow in numbers, and in strength. The 

cures, — 
So wonderful — the healing air had wrought. 
Were noised abroad, and many came to test 
Its virtues ; far too many came too late, 
Who earlier coming, might have gained the 

boon 
Of health. But many came to know the joy 
Of growing well and strong again; among 
Them, Roland, with his little family. 



46 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

MID-SUMMER 

Midsummer's scorching heat is on the land, 
And parched and brown becomes the earth, save 

where 
The irrigating waters lend their cool 
And life-sustaining current. 

Fields that once 
Were barren as the land surrounding them, — 
Ere man had turned the virgin soil, and poured 
The river's flood upon it, — hold aloft 
Their varied shades of green, and seem more 

bright 
And beautiful by contrast. 

Forth the sun 
In early morning peers from curtain clouds 
With gold and crimson richly tinted; but. 
Awakes no answering sparkle from the grass 
The silent, passing night has left still dry 
And dewless. Lined against the western sky, 
Like faithful sentinels, the mountains stand. 
And touched by morning's rays, their snow- 
crowned peaks, 
Agleam with rainbow-tinted beauty, send 
Responses to Aurora's benison. 



APRAIRIEIDYL 47 

Far north, as noonday heat approaches, where 
No water, tree, or house the dull plains bear, 
Appears what seems to be a limpid lake; 
Or else, perchance, a little town is seen, 
With trees and houses all presented there ; — 
A picture which the heated air projects, — 
Delusive picture,— desert-born mirage. 
The glowing heat would drain the energy 
From man and beast, save that the whitened 

peaks 
With coolness freight the breeze that wanders 

by, 
And bears its grateful burden to the plams. 
Outside the fence, the cattle wild, that see 
A foe in man and never knew him as 
A friend, and horses equally untamed. 
Pass slowly down to where the low-drained 

creek 
But barely flows, to quench their thirst. They 

file,— 
In little groups along the crooked paths 
Their feet have worn in sod so tough and 

dry,— 
Between the cactus beds, and through the towns 
The prairie dogs have made. From out their 

holes — 



48 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Mound-guarded — cheery settlers come, and in 
The sunshine sit and bark, or run from mound 
To mound, as if on social calls intent. 
Small owls — intrusive tenants, or perhaps, — 
The marmots' guests, with dull and sleepy look. 
Upon the mounds like images are set. 

Adown the long dividing fence, a band 

Of pretty, graceful antelope appear. 

And pausing where the curving ditch upon 

Their side its rippling waters offer, slake 

Their thirst without a fear, nor question how 

The chance should meet them there. With 

eager heads 
Uplifted high, and plaintive eyes, so brown 
And beautiful, — as curious as Eve — 
Still down the line they hold their way, as if 
They seek to know what change has come to 

pass 
Upon their plains, where Roland's little home 
Is reared. Then warned by slightest move- 
ment, or 
By sound, that peril may ensue, they fly 
Across the prairies wide, with length'ning 

bounds. 
And feet that almost spurn to touch the earth : 







jHH 






<^ 



APRAIRIEIDYL 49 

Then turning- — curiosity-impelled, 
Draw near once more, as if they cannot bear 
To leave the mystery unsolved ; and then 
With startled scent, as fleet as wind, behind 
A rising point of ground they disappear. 

From out the shelter of her little home 
All this, does Margaret behold, and thinks 
How like a lighthouse on an ocean rock 
Her place of refuge is. As lies the tide 
Around the reef, so lies the boundless plains 
Around her door, and which is more alone ? 
Within her home, her children's voices fill 
With happy shouts, her ear and heart. If those 
They love, are well, and working on, and up. 
How much of wearing burdens women learn 
To bear with faith and patience, ever strong. 

LOST 

"The house is done, and death is at the door ;" 
How oft has time the proverb proven true. 
Within the prairie home again events 
Its aptness verifies. A shadow falls 
And lifts not. Summer's fervid heat has 
wrought 



50 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

A change upon the youngest, frailest, there. 
And baby Esther droops and fades away. 
With anxious, aching hearts they seek the aid 
The town can give, and hope increases when 
At set of sun she falls into a sleep, — 
A quiet sleep that seems to augur well. 

With heart so glad and thankful, of its load 
Relieved, about her household duties, light 
Of step, and deft of hand, goes Margaret; 
For, so she thinks, the morn will surely bless 
Her with her babe's returning health. Alas, 
For mother love! Ere strikes the hour of 

nine 
The little one awakes so ill that hope 
Within her dies. In that dread hour they seek 
For human aid, the aid they cannot find, 
Except within the little town, an hour's 
Long ride away. The only neighbor left 
Her prairie home long since, to minister 
To one beloved, by sickness helpless made. 
Scarce twenty rods away, the horses graze. 
With hobbled feet, so chained together that 
They cannot stray. Assuring Margaret 
That he will soon return, and begging her 
To bravely keep her courage up, into 



APRAIRIEIDYL 5^ 

The darkness Roland hastens for the steeds 
That must be had to make a hurried trip 
To town. That not a moment may be lost, 
His workman with him goes. He glances at 
The dipper's seven stars, and notes the place 
They hold above the house ; for here and there 
Are clouds, and once outside the fence, no sign, 
No landmark, will they meet to show the way. 
Upon the horses' heads they think at once 
To lay their hands, or else to hear them bite 
The grass, or cHnk their chains; but all goes 

wrong, — 
As if all things conspired against the life 
So prized, so dear ; for after searching long 
In vain, at last they realize that they, 
Themselves, are lost; are lost as wholly as 
Two men can be. 

The clouds have thickened in 
The sky, and not a star sheds guiding light ; 
The wind that strongly blew from out the west. 
Ere they had lost their compass points, may 

guide 
Them now ; as men in sorest strait will catch 
At straws, they think by walking facing it. 
To find the fence, or else to see the lights 



52 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Of home. But all in vain. The wind has 

changed, 
Perhaps. One thing is certain; they are lost. 
With dire forebodings filled of what this new 
Misfortune means to him, and those so dear. 
The anxious father strives in everv way 
To find again the doubly shrouded home. 
To cover larger space of ground, they now 
Take varying paths, and listening for a sound 
To guide them, calling to each other, that 
They may not separate beyond their range 
Of voice, they seek to find their way from out 
The labyrinth by darkness forced upon 
Them. Lost ! with neither compass, polar star, 
Or light ; for e'en the lighthouse home has failed 
Them in this time of sorest need. 

THE FEARFUL NIGHT 

How fares ' 
The lonely watcher in the lonely house. 
So helpless in her dire necessity ? 
The suffering child becomes more ill each hour, 
And from the tortured little body rings 
The awful piercing cry that tells of brain 
Affected ; cry, that tears the mother's heart, 



A PRAIRIE IDYL S3 

And fills her with the numbness of despair. 
Earl's childish hands assist as best they can, 
And all the simple means to give relief 
The house affords, are tried. Awaking from 
Her rosy, healthful sleep, in pitying tone. 
And lisping accent, little Ruthie asks, 
"What makes the darhng baby cry so hard?" 
"So sick ! so sick !" the mother moans ; "and he. 
Who might have brought us help, is lost upon 
The cruel plains ; he must be lost, or else 
Would he return." And so the fearful night 
Drags slowly by, and morn is drawing near. 
When Roland, pale and weary, comes. 

"If I 
Had only walked to town," he said ; "I might 
Have better walked there thrice, than walk 
As we have walked this night. We went too far 
To north, when first we started out, and then 
We could not see your light, I later learned. 
Because the shed that corners on this room, 
And rising ground, between ourselves and it, 
Completely hid it from us. Not until 
We traveled miles, did we behold it; then. 
We found the fence and near it kept until 
We reached the house. We found the horses 
where 



54 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

They always are, — just east of here, and John 
Has gone to bring the doctor out." 

Two hours, — 
Two precious hours must pass before a chance 
Of help is theirs; before is overcome 
In least degree, the night's relentless foe, — 
The settler's dreaded obstacle — great space. 
With morning's light, — the doctor there — their 

hope 
Revives ; but as the sunset's golden gleam 
Falls softly on the earth below, the pure 
Child-spirit takes its flight, as gently as 
The flower that sleeps, its lovely petals folds 
Together. 

GRIEF'S LOAD 

Hard, how hard, the mourner knows. 
To lay the loved away, and turn again 
To take life's daily burden up ; to do 
Again the work, whose kindly offices 
No more can reach to them ; to leave undone 
What once was Love's fond offering ; to live 
O'er weighted with the sense of loneliness 
And loss. Yet all must sometime bear Grief's 

load; 
The only choice allowed is, how. 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 55 

Now, work 
That must be done, the greatest blessing is ; 
The faculties employed in kindly deeds 
For others, gently draw the thoughts from self, 
And teaches less to brood, with sighs and tears, 
On sorrows past. 

The days pass slowly by ; 
The morning breaks ; the noon pours down its 

heat; 
The night, its gath'ring shadows brightens with 
Its train of countless stars ; alike on all 
Day's changing aspect throws a light or shade ; 
And hearts respond to Nature's moods, as they 
Attuned to joy or sorrow are. The day 
Arrives, that marks a year since first upon 
Her angel child the sorrowing mother looked ; 
What might have been, but is not, fills her 

heart ; 
Thoughts come demanding utterance ; her pen. 
The medium between, she takes, and writes. 

"A year ago to-day I held thee first 

Within my loving arms. Where art thou, 

sweet ? 
I see thee not. Thy cradle empty stands. 
And thou art gone. Thy earthly home knows 

thee 



56 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

No more. I cannot cause this human heart 
To cease to long for thee. Was mother love 
Created changeless, deathless, but to have 
Its tendrils rudely snapped, no more to be 
United ? This is thy birthday, and I, 
Thy mother, cannot take thee in my arms ; 
Upon thy lips no birthday kiss can press ; 
For thou, a little while ago, didst have 
Another birthday; through thine own suffer- 
ings 
Thou wast born into the realms immortal. 
Why do I weep ? What cause have I to mourn ? 
Thy little life has left no stain upon 
Thy pure sweet soul; a snow-white bud thou 

canst 
Unfold in heaven's light, in loveliness 
More lovely still, for this, thine early call. 
Hadst thou staid here, my child, thou wouldst 

have been 
Another tie to bind me to the earth. 
But now, thy little hands reach out to me 
From that fair land, and still, a little child, — 
An angel child, — shall lead me on. Hast thou, 
My babe, no need of me ? Canst thou at once 
Become content to live apart from thine 
Own mother? At every step I miss thy smile, 




NATHAN C. MEEKER. 

'The Moses of the colony again 
The eager leader was — the Agent of 
The government." — Page 59- 



APRAIRIEIDYL 57 

Thy merry shout, thy nestHng- head ; then in 
My grief I pray that thou knowst not the pangs 
Of parting; that to thee my place be filled. 
One moment, thou wast here, my baby, mine. 
The next, thou wast an angel babe, and yet, 
My baby still. And who shall say but what 
To thee my loving, tender thoughts shall reach, 
And make thee glad, as did my fond caresses ? 
There is a pleasure in the thought, though none 
May say that it is truth. The grief I know, 
Can never come to thee. My sorrow o'er 
Thy grave has spared thy sorrow over mine. 
My thoughts are full of thee, and thy new life." 

THE AGENCY 

The summer passed. September's glowing 

days. 
And frost-touched nights were vanishing, when 

clouds 
Of smoke appeared, and draped their murkiness 
Upon the land. The rays of sun and moon 
Were dimmed. The mountains, town, and river 

trees 
Were veiled from sight, and nearer objects 

scarce 



S8 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Could be descried. Men said, "Fierce forest 

fires 
Are raging in the hills." But none told why. 
Not one of all the little town divined 
What dreadful deeds that dismal cloud fore- 
told. 
For days and weeks, it shrouded like a pall 
The land. Then came a rumor of the truth, — 
The fearful, startling tales of massacre, — 
Of peril and captivity, more hard 
To bear than death. 

Two years before, a band 
Of earnest workers left their pleasant homes, 
Within the fenced-in prairie town, to live 
Far in the rugged mountain wilds, where dwell 
The red-skinned Utes. It was to be their task 
To care for them ; to see that they received 
The stores a government paternal, sent 
Its savage wards ; to teach them careful ways 
That lead to comfort, peace, and plenty. 

Men 
Went there, at various times to aid the work; 
An engineer, to plan the water-ways 
That he who irrigates, must have ; and men 
To lay the native rock as masons do; 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 59 

And other workmen went, to come again, 
With no especial danger undergone. 

The Moses of the colony, again 

The eager leader was, — the Agent of 

The government. With him he took his wife, — 

Both now well past the three-score line of age — 

His daughter fair, and young, and slight, — to 

teach 
Papooses, could they be induced to learn — 
A blacksmith with his wife and infants two, 
And farmers and mechanics; — men who went 
To till the soil, build houses, ditches, barns, — ■ 
And show the unskilled Indian how he might 
Improve his comfortless condition, should he 

learn 
To work. Two brothers from one home went 

forth; 
Of all those noble, stalwart men, but two 
E'er saw their prairie homes and friends again ; 
One, by a train of circumstances, such 
As oft occurs, was led to hasten home. 
Without a thought of danger from the Utes, 
When fatal would have been a week's delay; 
And one, a messenger was sent from camp. 
The leader, whom the colonists revered 



60 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

And loved as "Father Meeker/' took the work 
In hand with zeal enthusiastic; chose 
His helpers from the families that held 
High rank for steadfastness, integrity, 
And worth, and sought his duties to perform 
With faithfulness and care. 

THE INDIANS 

The Indians loved 
Not work ; it angered them to see the sod 
Their horses grazed upon, turned under by 
The plow, though grass abounded, farther on. 
Their pride would not allow young Utes to go 
To school. Their women ridiculed a brave 
Who tried to work. The "noble red men" 

wished 
To hunt and fish, and roam the mountains, — 

free — 
Not work like squaws. They claimed the land 

was theirs, — 
The Agent and his men were there to work 
For them. The more they heard about the need 
Of work, about the good to come from it, 
The angrier they grew. This state of things 
In letters reached the little town. Alarmed, 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 6l 

The friends and parents urg'ed the need of haste 
In leaving dangers so pronounced, but failed 
To make impression on the men who thought 
Themselves as safe as they within the fence, — 
So far deceived were they by treacherous Utes. 

At last the Agent saw that coaxing" could 
Not make the untrained savage work. 
They grew more bold and insolent. Upon 
The grounds, around the Agent's house, they 

danced 
Their wild, fantastic, fear-inspiring dance 
The sign of war to come — and made the long 
Night hideous with shouts and yells. At morn, 
A messenger was sent to ask for troops 
To give protection and enforce the rules 
The government had made concerning its 
Supplies. 

For months before the bursting storm 
Had shown a threat'ning cloud, and one who 

knew 
The Indian well, a warning would have read. 
At times, the Denver papers published things 
About the Utes that maddened them ; the one 
Who wrote them, doubtless, never thought the 

braves 



62 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Would hear, or understand ; but some one read 
It all to them, — interpreted the words, 
And cruelly, maliciously, it seems. 
Made them believe the Agent wrote the tales. 
Indignant, to the agency they went. 
And angrily accused the gray-haired man 
Of writing lies of them, and word for word 
Repeated what the papers said. 

One day, 
A flaming headline came; "The Utes Must 

Go!" 
The Agent sadly laid his paper down. 
And said, as if he felt presentiment 
Of what awaited him, "The Utes must go; 
But first, a sacrifice must be, and I, 
Perhaps as well as any one, may fill 
The place." The other men knew well the light 
In which the good old man was placed, and 

feared 
For him at times, but little thought the Utes, 
Who loved to be with them, and hear them 

sing. 
And play the violin, and talk, and laugh, 
Could so forget their friendship as to wish 
To harm the others at the agency. 
The scattered settlers felt themselves unsafe, 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 63 

And read their danger in such deeds as these, — 
Their cattle driven off, or maybe killed ; 
Large fires left to mark the homeward path 
Of braves returning from some distant peak. 

The Utes denied strange v^hite men any right 
To step upon their soil. This fact was shown 
With all its frightful possibilities 
When men from Denver traveled there to view 
The place and interview the men. The first 
The Agent knew of threatened trouble, Utes 
Came running to his house, exclaiming, wild 
With great excitement, 'White men here!" 

and in 
An instant all the braves were armed and placed 
In battle line, a horde against the few 
Intruders who had risked their lives in this 
Attempt. The Agent saw the danger, not 
Alone to stranger whites ; for should the tribe 
In deeds of lawlessness begin to act, — 
Then all must suffer ; quick as thought he flung 
The Stars and Stripes upon the breeze; the 

Utes, 
Beneath its folds, a certain safety felt, 
And quietly dispersed, — so quickly, that 
They seemed within the ground to disappear. 



64 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Still holding that the white man should not 

come, — 
The sending for the soldiers angered them, 
And grass was burned to make it difficult 
For cavalry to reach their rocky heights. 
The Utes on every hand applied the torch. 
And mountains glowed with fiercest flames, and 

grand 
Old trees, — whole forests — blackened by them 

fell. 

THE MASSACRE 

The chiefs and their out-runners knew when 

first 
The soldiers stepped upon the mountain soil. 
They met them and professed great friendship 

for 
The whites ; then went their way to meet again. 
And disappear, mysteriously as they 
Had come. Upon their slow and tiresome way. 
O'er unbridged creeks, up mountain sides, and 

down 
The deep ravines, the troops and wagon trains 
Proceeded ; keen-eyed scouts no farther sign 
Of warriors saw, and all went well until 




MISS JOSEPHINE MEEKER. 

'His daughter, fair and young and slight, — to teach 
Papooses, could they be induced to learn." -Fa^^t? 59. 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 65 

They reached a rapid creek, where rocky cliffs 
On either side o'erhung the narrow trail, 
And there the two-faced Utes rained bullets 

from 
The rocks above, and murdered Thornburg and 
Eleven of his gallant men, and thrice 
As many wounded fell. 

For full three days 
And nights, the suffering remnant held their 

own 
Against the Utes, then slightly reinforced, 
Held out as long again, till Merritt and 
His force came up, and then the sneaking 

braves. 
With many wounded, and with twenty dead, 
All silently withdrew. 

Advancing toward 
The agency, a courier was met, — 
By Father Meeker sent in search of aid — 
A lucky errand, since it saved his life. 
Though every step with danger was beset. 
Still farther on, the soldiers found a note 
Upon a bush, beside the trail,— placed there. 
They later learned, by ranchmen fleeing from 



66 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

The Utes ; and thu3 it read : '^Urge on the 

troops ! 
All murdered at the agency!" 

A few 
Hours' march and they were standing on the 

site 
Where once the agency had been — for here, 
The ready torch, again had done its work. 
White river, hurrying down its rocky path. 
And gliding through the meadows green, still 

sang 
Its gurgling song as merrily as if 
No grief, or trouble ever was. All else 
Was still. Death's quiet reigned. And there 

they lay, — 
The murdered, mutilated men. All slain 
By painted fiends. The kind and good old 

man. 
His seven young assistants, — noble, brave. 
The hope of parents and the joy of friends ; 
All slain by those they labored for, — to whom 
They wrought at all times naught but good. 

THE CAPTIVES 

Where now 
The three frail women and the little ones. 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 67 

Defenceless left? In sad captivity, 
Deep in the heart of Rocky Mountain wilds, 
They bravely live from day to day, and know 
Not but each fateful hour may be their last. 
Before the fearful massacre began, 
They saw strange Indians around the place. 
And wondered what their coming might por- 
tend; 
When soon, the fatal balls began to fly. 
They hid in buildings ; driven thence by smoke 
And flames, they sought to reach the cover of 
The brush, but wounded by a rifle ball. 
The elder woman fell. Then came the Utes, 
And bade them mount and go with them. 

The moon 
Rose full and beautiful upon the scene. 
The warriors decked with feathers and with 

paint. 
The pack mules laden with their stolen goods, 
The doubly burdened ponies, filed along 
The winding Indian trail, — a cavalcade, 
Grotesque and weird, and somber as the night. 
When several long and weary hours had 

passed 
A halt was made for rest, and then the chief 
His noble qualities displayed by threats 



68 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

With dreadful anger filled. A loaded gun 
He placed at one poor captive's head, to prove 
If she would shrink, or run away. "I shall 
Not run," she said : "I fear not you, nor death." 
Another, treated like the first, said, "Shoot ! 
I care not if I die." ''Brave squaw! Good 

squaw ! 
No scare!" the great Chief Douglass said; then 

laughed 
And jeered at, by his braves he slunk away. 

Again, they took the rugged mountain trail. 
The sorrow-stricken captives could but note 
How awe-inspiring in the moon's pale light 
The grandeur of the scenes through which they 

filed, 
Like moving shadows; 'neath the tall dark 

pines. 
By giant rocks, o'er dizzy heights they went, 
Down deep ravines, beside the foaming stream 
That thundered o'er its rocky bed, and on. 
To where the Utes had lately moved their 

camp. 
To have their squaws and children safely 

placed. 
In preparation for the war they planned. 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 69 

Again, when passed the noon of night, they left 
The trail, and made a second halt beside 
An ice-cold stream, that through a canon ran, — 
A canon, deep and dark, by towering peaks 
Hedged in on every side, and here they found 
The squaws encamped. The wounded lady, 

sore 
And stiffened by her ride, could not dismount ; 
Chief Douglass dragged her from her horse, 

nor cared 
That she should helpless fall. The squaws, 

more kind 
And gentle, made for her a blanket bed. 
The women, placed in separate tents, that sad 
And direful night, slept little. Morning 

brought 
A foaming pony in, whose rider told 
Of Thornburg's battle in the pass. This news 
Aroused the braves, and great excitement 

reigned ; 
The ponies hurriedly were saddled, and 
Bedecked with gaudy, savage hideousness. 
The yelling warriors hastened to the front. 
The captives with the squaws remained. Some 

felt 
A pity for the whites, and wept with them ; 



70 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

They petted, in their way, the Httle ones. 
Who bravely bore the hardships as they came. 
And learned to sing- the weird and mournful 

songs 
The squaws sung 'round the captives' beds at 

night. 
The red men liked the "white papooses" much, 
And when they learned they could not steal 

them from 
The mother's clinging arms, they tried to buy. 
And offered ponies in exchange for them. 
Squaw Susan made them moccasins to wear. 
And over them she wept, because the Utes 
Had made them fatherless; with kindly deeds 
She often eased the captives' dreary lot. 
Squaw Susan was the sister of Ouray, — 
"The white man's friend," — the head of all the 

Utes; 
And both, the captives learned, were "friends 

indeed." 
In intellect and heart, they seemed above 
The others of their tribe. Ouray had lived 
With whites, and spoke the Spanish language 

well; 
And Susan owed her life to them, and still, 
The debt of gratitude, desired to pay. 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 71 

Long years before, when she was young, be- 
fore 
The colonists had thought to settle on 
The arid plains and found the busy town 
For Horace Greeley named, white soldiers 

saved 
Her life. 'Twas then, Arapahoes, the red 
Men of the plains, at war with mountain Utes, 
Had bound a captured squaw, to burn her at 
A tree, just north of where that town now 

stands. 
Not far from where the winding Poudre flows ; 
The brush was piled, the torch applied, — 

when lo! 
A band of soldiers from the Collins fort, 
Scarce thirty miles away, appeared, and saved 
The dusky Indian maiden from her foes, 
And sent her safely to her tribe, — the Utes 
Beyond the snowy range. They gave her then 
The name she bore, and Susan never did 
Forget. 

While yet the warriors were away. 
The squaws broke camp and moved still farther 

on 
To where the mountains framed a valley rich 
In grass, that covered it luxuriantly. 



y2 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

And through which ran a pure and sparkling 

stream. 
The red men now returned by twos and threes, 
And wore with pride the clothing taken from 
The soldiers they had slain. They piled the 

sage 
Brush high, spread over it the stolen clothes. 
And danced around the pile, with fearful yells, 
And actions frightfully suggestive of 
The ghastly deeds the hideous men might do. 
At night, the Indians held a council long. 
And plainly fraught with grave intent. Ouray 
Had sent a messenger commanding Utes 
To let the pale-faced captives go ; he liked 
Not that a portion of his tribe had gone 
To war. He bade them cease the bloody work ; 
And, on the other hand, a great white chief 
With many warriors, hastened towards their 

camp. 
A day of indecision passed, and then 
The tents were taken down, the ponies packed 
With camp utensils, and at fearful pace 
All hastened over mountains steep, that one 
Who walked could scarcely pass. With neither 

food, 
Or rest, or water, dragged the dreadful day, 




OURAY AND CHIPETA. 

"Released at last they traveled to the home 
Of Chief Ouray. His wife, Chipeta, wept 
For them because their lot had been so hard." - Page 77. 



APRAIRIEIDYL 73 

While blew the wind so terribly, that dust 
Enveloped them as might a cloud. 

The dame, 
So frail at best, but wounded now, and weak, 
No saddle and no bridle had, and much 
She suffered on that cold and cruel ride. 
Her captors little cared if she should die ; 
They dared not murder her, as helpless as 
She was ; they thought that their "Great Spirit'* 

loved 
The "Heap good doctor woman" much, and 

feared 
His anger should they take her life ; and yet, 
They would have lost her in those wilds, to 

starve. 
Or fall a prey to beasts, without regret ; 
And knowing this, the other captives watched 
Her well. At night a camping place was 

reached ; 
The women gladly parted from their steeds, 
And sank exhausted on the ground. 

Beside 
Grand River they were camped for several 

days. 
The Indians from the mountains high, each 

day 



74 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

The soldiers watched with glasses looking far. 
With foaming steeds the runners often came, 
At last, with news that troops were drawing 

near. 
This word in camp a fearful panic made ; — 
A riot wild; the warriors ran this way 
And that; Chief Johnson, maddened at the 

sense 
Of danger near, his anger vent upon 
His youngest squaw, who screamed with fright 

and pain, 
As fell the brutal lash. The ponies felt 
The tumult in the air, and snorted, reared, 
And ran, until it seemed as if they could 
Not be subdued ; but caught at last, the tents 
Were taken down, the burden-bearing beasts 
Were loaded once again ; the camp was moved 
Still farther south, and on, and on, and on, 
For. three days more. 

The rain began to fall, 
And every day the women and the babes 
Were drenched with it. The Utes could not 

retreat 
Much farther ; they were near the limit of 
Their reservation, — near the snowy range. 
Again they camped, and here remained until 



APRAIRIEIDYL 75 

The soldiers came, — till General Adams came 
To take the captives home. The red men spent 
The time in camp hilariously ; they danced 
And sang. The "white papooses" joined with 

them 
Right gleefully. The little ones soon learned 
To imitate their dances and to sing 
Their droning songs. Their savage captors 

watched 
Them with delight, and more than ever, wished 
To purchase them. 

At times the fleeing Utes — 
Made homeless by their own misdeeds, — de- 
clared 
The blame was all the Agent's, who they said. 
Would make them work, and would not do 

as he 
Was told by them. Chief Douglass sadly 

shook his head. 
And said, ''Me heap poor man !" 

A conference 
Had been agreed upon, at last, between 
The soldiers and the warring tribe. The sky 
Was tinted with the sunset's brilliant glow 
When braves appeared and told their prisoners, 



^(i PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

"To-morrow, five white men will come, and 

one, 
A heap big man of peace." The captives 

heard 
The news with joy. The morning brought the 

friends 
They could not greet with words, so great was 

their 
Emotion. Hardship, insult, ridicule 
And peril, they had borne without a tear, 
But kindly faces looking into theirs. 
The clasp of friendly hands, could not be seen 
And felt, unmoved. 

Ouray gave orders that 
The captives should be treated well and be 
Allowed to go. A stormy council then 
Ensued. A portion of the Utes desired 
To hold the prisoners between themselves 
And justice until peace should be declared — 
And others wished them freed. 

The speeches grew 
In length and violence, when Susan burst 
Into the council lodge, in gorgeous wrap 
Arrayed, — a robe of finest skin of deer, — 
With beads and fringes trimmed, — demanding 

that 



APRAIRIEIDYL ^^ 

The captives should be freed; she told their 

tale 
Of suffering and woe, and pled their cause 
So well, that speedily she won it. Three 
And twenty days the Utes their captives held. 
Released at last, they traveled to the home 
Of Chief Ouray. His wife, Chipeta, wept 
For them, because their lot had been so hard, 
And shared with them the comforts of her 

home. 
The fleet, sure-footed horses, — mountain 

reared — 
Between them and their captors, day by day, 
A long and welcome space stretched out, until 
Tall ranges loomed between them and the land 
Of their captivity and woe, — until 
The swifter horse of steam was reached that 

sped 
Them to their friends. 

Words fail to paint the joy, 
The grief of that home-coming. Welcomes 

filled 
The air, the tears and smiles all faces showed. 
The flags at half-mast hung; in mourning 

draped 



78 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Was all the town. The people like one great 
And loving family bereaved, did mourn. 

PRAIRIE ROVERS 

As v^inter days drav^ near, the dwellers in 

The lonely prairie home see phases of 

The life upon the plains, still new to them. 

Upon the unclaimed land, that stretches far, 

A herder, with his dog and pony, comes 

To watch his white-fleeced flock the while they 

graze 
Upon the prairie's dried nutritious grass, 
Named for the buffalo it nourished in 
The years gone by, when they, — the monarchs 

of 
The plains, — in countless numbers roamed 

these wastes. 
The coyote skulks from knoll to knoll in search 
Of prey, his hunger to appease, and with 
His many-keyed, blood-curdling howls and 

yelps. 
Awakes uncanny echoes in the night. 
His larger, but less noisy relative — 
The wolf — comes not so near the haunts of 
men. 



APRAIRIEIDYL 79 

But out Upon the plains, in greedy packs, 
Surround the smaller herds, and animals 
Are harassed, till they can endure no more, 
And fall, their victims. Rabbits bound away 
With startling swiftness, when a passer-by 
Draws near their sheltering tuft of grass. Wild 

geese 
And ducks between the river and the fields 
Where grain has grown, make frequent jour- 
ney ings. 
The buzzard, and the hawk, dark birds of 

prey- 
Oft circle 'round; but no sweet song birds 

come ; 
The treeless, vineless prairie offers them 
No sheltered and alluring nesting place. 

THE BRONCO BREAKERS 

Across the country, cowboys with a band 
Of cattle come, with outfit all complete 
For them to live upon the plains for weeks. 
To keep the riders well supplied with steeds, 
Both fresh and active, extra horses with 
Them travel. Passing through the settlement, 
Where many objects block their way, they ride 
The horses broken to the work. But once 



80 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Outside the fence, where no obstructions are, 
The untamed broncos are compelled to yield 
Subjection to the master's bit and spur. 

With piercing shouts from riders, ponies crowd 
The weary cattle through the open gate. 
And reach a point where all may take a rest. 
The men and beasts seek comfort, each in his 
Own way. The hungry herd spread out to 

crop 
The sweet dry grass, or lie them down to sleep. 
The cook, his prairie schooner, filled with food 
Supplies and blankets, draws aside, and lights 
A fire and soon prepares a smoking meal. 

Refreshed and rested, all are ready for 
The start. A theater the boundless plains 
Become at once, where reckless riders show 
Their daring skill. The cowboys, mounted on 
Their well-trained steeds, each singles from 

the herd 
The bronco he intends to break. A dash, 
A leap, away, across the plains they go, — 
Pursuer and pursued. Above his head 
The rider swings his lariat, as on 
They fly. His knowing pony understands 




< 5 " 



m H 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 8l 

The part that it must act, as fully as 

The horseman knows his own. The fleeing 

horse, 
Unburdened, makes a picture full of strength 
And spirit, and of beauty, as it speeds 
Courageously, with nervous, reckless haste. 
The other, in reserve his fleetness holds, 
And heads the fleer off at every turn. 
The moment that the rider nears his prize. 
The circling, buzzing rope, with angry hiss 
And whir, cuts swiftly through the air, and 

lands 
Its choking slip-noose 'round the bronco's neck. 
The pony, at that instant turns, and plants 
His four feet firmly on the ground, and holds 
Them there, with rope attached to saddle horn. 
Until the frightened, well nigh strangled beast,' 
Decides to quit its rearing, plunging fight. 
And go wherever it is led. And now. 
The troubles of the untamed horse have but 
Begun. The rider's weight upon its back, 
The bit, the saddle, it must learn to know. 
The trembling bronco stands with blinded eyes, 
And fettered feet, or throws itself upon 
The ground, while men adjust the binding 

straps. 



82 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

The rider springs into the saddle seat ; 
The bhnds and fetters off, across the plains 
The frantic bronco tears and plunges, rears 
And jumps, with legs held straight and stiff, 

in vain 
Attempts to throw the fearless man, who sits 
As firm and easily as if he were 
A portion of the animal. Each man 
Subdues his horse with little difference 
Of skill and strength. The captor ponies now 
Enjoy a well-earned rest, to travel with 
The band turned loose. The broncos, yield- 
ing to 
Their riders' will, at last, are made to urge 
The quadrupeds upon their way, and soon, 
A cloud of dust declares the exit of 
The various actors from the mammoth stage. 

WILD HORSES 

Large bands of horses no one owns, run wild 
Upon the plains, and men inured to toil 
And danger, often try to capture them. 
The horse is not a native of this land. 
The Spaniards knew his worth and brought 
him here. 



APRAIRIEIDYL 83 

These unclaimed herds must be the progeny 
Of animals that one day knew the care 
Of man, perhaps escaped, when savages 
Their owners massacred, or from them strayed, 
When they defied the perils of the plains 
In seeking California's new-found gold. 

Along the dusty trail, a little band 

Of men and horses come, and slowly near 

The gate. The riders pause to quench their 

thirst 
Where Roland's well a cooling draft supplies. 
The horses that the watchful men surround, 
Are captives, — weary and dispirited, — 
That but a few short days ago, arched their 
Proud necks, and fleet of foot, with flowing 

manes 
And tails, as swiftly as the wind across 
The prairies sped, untrammeled by the will 
Of man. One hardy, skillful horseman, broad 
Of chest, and bronzed by wind and sun, who 

knows 
So thoroughly the almost trackless plains. 
And reads so well the guidance of the stars 
He has no fear of being lost by day 



84 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Or night, has hunted these wild creatures 

years, 
And studied them until he knows full well 
Their habits and their haunts. The captor of 
A thousand head and more, the settlers far 
And near, know "Wild Horse Jerry." Resting 

now, 
With questions plied, he tells the story of 
His novel work, in substance given here. 

WILD HORSE JERRY'S STORY 

All over this unsettled country, bands 
Of wild and unowned horses roam, each band 
Protected and controlled by one strong male. 
This stallion will allow no rival near, 
And weaker males are often found alone, 
Upon the plains. Terrific fights sometimes 
Ensue, when two aspire to leadership. 
I followed once, for forty hours or more, 
A band that was becoming very tired; 
We chanced to pass upon the plains, one of 
These lone and beaten males. He seemed at 

once 
To know his hated rival's strength was gone. 
And saw his chance to take the band from him. 



APRAIRIEIDYL 85 

They fought for mastery for more than half 
A day, and reared, and struck, and bit, and fell 
Upon their knees and wrestled terribly, 
Until the lonely horse the leadership 
Assumed, — made victor by his greater 
strength. 

The man who captures these wild animals 
Must test his patience and endurance well. 
When I discover where they range, I make 
My camp as near them as I can and still 
Be near a good supply of water; then, 
I place my men and extra horses there — 
In camp — and ride out toward the wary band. 
You know all horses cling to their old range. 
And will not leave it unless driven off, 
And then, when free, return. This instinct, — 

when 
I only follow them enough to keep 
Them moving, — causes them to circle some, 
And makes it quite an easy thing for me 
To have a new fresh horse from camp when 

mine 
Is tired. Wild horses are intelligent. 
And harder to surprise than antelope. 
They see me when a mile away, and stand 



00 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

And watch me for awhile, and when they leam 
That I am nearing them, they run to some 
Far hill and watch again. When they decide 
That they are followed, then, the work begins. 
They then will start and run for twenty miles, 
Or more. I do not try to follow near 
To them, but ride the way they went until 
They notice me, and run again, and so 
Allow them little time to eat, or sleep. 

1 always let them drink; they then become 

More gentle and less active, too. I do 

Not try to crowd them day and night, but try 

To get them used to seeing me. A day 

Or two, I work like this, and then ride near 

To them, and in a measure can direct 

Their course. The yearlings tire out first and 

want 
To stop. One time, a leader tried to drive 
Me back ; as he came near to me I threw 
Some rocks and hit him just behind the ear; 
I felled him several times ; at last, he kept 
Away, but still showed fight. Three days and 

nights 
Tve followed these wild creatures, without 

sleep. 
Excepting, that I dozed a little as 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 8? 

I rode. The horses were so weary that 
They could not travel fast, or far; I drove 
Them very carefully into a strong 
Corral, so made, that it did not betray 
It was a trap for them. If I had urged 
Them then, they would have scattered, and my 

work 
Would all have been in vain. The largest herd 
I ever caught, was thirty. Men have stunned 
And captured animals they coveted. 
By "creasing" them ; they wound with rifle ball 
A certain cord upon the horse's neck. 
Which causes him to fall unconscious ; then. 
They bind their prize, and hold him prisoner. 
And while they cure the wound, they tame the 

horse. 
It often happens that the bullet strikes 
A vital point, an inch below the mark, 
And then the noble creature murdered falls, — 
A victim of man's cruelty and greed. 

THE BLIZZARD 

Mid-winter's days, with skies of cloudless blue. 
And sun of dazzling brightness, come and go, 
With little hint of storm, or bitter cold. 



88 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

While Boreas allows the milder winds 
To sweep the plains. Vast herds of cattle feed 
Upon the prairie grass, and scattered far, 
They crop the hay-like spears, that August's 

heat, 
And lack of moisture, cured to meet their 

wants. 
Some stagnant pool supplies the water they 
Must drink, unless, they happily may range 
In some fair valley, that a flowing stream 
Makes glad. Unsheltered, and forlorn at best, 
Who can portray the suffering of those poor 
Dumb beasts when comes the cruel, numbing 

cold, — 
Fierce offspring of dark clouds that ride upon 
The stinging blast, and cutting, blinding 

sleet, — 
The fearful blizzard, reigning in its wrath? 
Before its terrors, man, unsheltered, soon 
Would cease to fight for life. Not often, but 
Unheralded and unexpected, come 
These dreaded storms. The prairie dwellers 

see 
The warm, bright, spring-like morn, in one 

short hour. 
Give place to warring elements surcharged 




PUBLIC SCHOOL BUILDINGS. 



'The prairie town, long since a city named, 
Displays with pride its churches and its scliools."-/'«cr^ 103. 



A PRAIRIE IDYL 89 

With Arctic cold. With hurrying steps the 

men 
Protect the animals belonging to 
The place, and snugly house and feed in barns, 
That look like long, low stacks, so deeply are 
Their frames with straw and hay o'er spread. 

Despite 
Their care, the weaklings of the herd succumb. 
And morning finds them stiff and cold. The 

gloom 
Upon the world without, makes greater seem 
The comforts of the lonely prairie home, 
Where warmth and cheer await the wanderer. 
The fires well piled with coal the prairie mines 
Afford, send forth unwonted, welcome glow. 
The stormy darkness early settles down. 
And adds long hours to the bitter night. 
The light of lanterns shining through the 

gloom, 
The footsteps creaking in the snow, announce 
The coming of the busy men, whose work 
Of being merciful to beasts is for 
The moment o'er. Their beards, icicled, show 
The rigors of the night. The shed-like room 
Which held the ranchman's homestead claim, 

before 



90 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

A house was joined to it, receives a shower 
Of snow from stamping feet and shaken 

coats, — 
While joke and laughter show how sturdily 
A man can buffet storms when waits for him 
The joy and comfort of a home. Served hot 
And steaming, is the evening meal. 
Refreshed and rested, 'round the fire they sit 
Comparing incidents of Western life. 

The table cleared, with anxious thought of 

one, — 
A lonely horseman, whom at early morn 
She saw pass through the gate, and out upon 
The almost houseless plains, the mother puts 
Her lamp upon the window seat, where it 
May feebly show against the storm, that here 
A habitation stands. The children nod 
Their sleepy heads, and soon are tucked away 
In slumber sweet. Her needle, Margaret 
Employs, while listening to the stories new 
And full of interest to one, who like 
Herself must learn to live and make a home 
Amid conditions never met before. 

A stranger shares her hospitality 

This night ; — a mountaineer, who luckily 



APRAIRIEIDYL gi 

Arrived a little earlier than the storm, 
With load of cedar poles he cut on some 
Steep mountain side full forty miles away, 
To fill her husband's order. Pleased to find 
An interested audience, he tells 
In quaint, terse terms, of times before the 

plains 
Were crossed by coaches drawn by steam, when 

he, 
A freighter, and a guide to emigrants. 
Drove dull, slow oxen, weary days across 
The barren wilds. But little questioning 
It needs to start his oft-told tales. One asks 
About the buffalo, that roamed the plains 
In vast uncounted herds, a few short years 
Before, ere they were slaughtered solely for 
Their shaggy coats. 

"Many's the time I've stopped 
My team to let a herd of buffalo 
Go past," the freighter said. 'They won't turn 

off 
Their path to trouble ye ; ye never saw 
No better critters 'bout that thing, — ^but if 
Ye' re in their way, they'll run right over ye. 
They alius run with heads to ground, ye 

know, — 



92 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Don't seem to see ye're there. One time when I 
Was going with a train to 'Frisco, all 
They did was jest to smash a feller's team; 
I told the eejit that he'd better wait ; 
No ! He was mad because we stopped the train 
To let them pass ; so he turned off the trail 
And started on, a grumblin' to hisself, 
'Won't get nowhere, a stoppin' all the time !' 
'Wall ! What's ten minutes when we've got a 

road 
A thousand miles to go,' sez I, 'and all 
The summer time ahead of ye? Ye'd best 
Jest wait a bit! Them buffalo has ben 
Hard chased by Indjins ! Don't you see they're 

cross ?' 
It want no use to talk to sich a fool ; 
He kept right on, and they ran over him ; 
We saw him hoppin' 'round amongst the 

herd, — 
They hustled him about and carried him 
A rod or more ; he lost all but one ox ; 
The wonder was that he got out alive 
Hisself. His blankets was stove full of holes ; 
Two sacks of flour was tracked about the plains. 
Suthin' to eat? He had a little cash, 
And bought his grub of some ' the rest of us, 



APRAIRIEIDYL 93 

And one man took his ox, and carted him 
The rest' the way for it. 

Seen Indjins? 

Piles 
Of 'em. They'd beg and steal of us while we 
Was going through their territory. Squaws 
Would beg for biscuit; alius seemed to think 
A sight o' biscuit; used to beg and say, 
'Papoose heap sick.' One day we got cor- 
ralled 
By 'em ; them Indjins was as thick as weeds. 
Their braves was on the warpath and they had 
The guns with them. The women, children, 

and old men 
They left behind was most a starved to death ; 
They begged us hard to kill a buffalo 
For them to eat ; one feller took his gun, — 
It was a long range rifle, — and he soon 
Brought down a buffalo; you should have seen 
Them Indjins eat; by morning 'twas all gone. 
And they stood 'round a sucking at the bones. 

Asthmy? I never seed a soul but what 
Got help for that a comin' here ; but folks 
That has consumption — is most gone — it kills 
To come here in the cars ; I knowed they used 



94 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

To cure afore the cars was here, but now, 
They gets into this altitude too quick. 
One time I took a woman 'cross the plains 
That was so nigh used up we had to lift 
Her in and out the wagon, take her to 
The houses nights, jest like a baby, long 
As houses could be found, but 'fore we got 
Half way to 'Frisco, she would make her brags 
That she could walk as far as we could drive 
Our oxen in a day, — and she could do 
It, too. 

What did we burn to cook our meals ? 
Why! buffalo chips. I used to take a sack 
And go way out along the trail, and fill 
It 'gainst the time we'd camp ; I used to dig 
A hole and make my fire in it and set 
My kettles in the hole; I kivered 'em 
With iron lids and made a fire on the lids 
And heat 'em top and bottom too; and that's 
The way I baked my bread, and meat and 

beans. 
Of course we baked, when we was camped o' 

nights ; 
We boiled and fried at any camping place. 
Most creeks has wood a growin' on the banks, 
And nat'rully we burned it when we camped 



APRAIRIEIDYL 95 

Near by, — but creeks want alius near our camp 
To ^ve us wood nor water, so we took 
A cask of water and some kindlin' right 
Along with us. 

Ye see, folks hadn't dug 
No wells nor mines for us, tho' prairie dogs 
Has alius ben prospectin' for the coal 
And bringin' little chunks of it above 
The ground sometimes, to scatter 'round their 

holes 
And show folks coal is there." 

Around the house 
The cold wind shrieks, as if in anger that 
It cannot enter and control the warm 
And cosy room, and drive its genial, but 
Unconquered foe therefrom. The talkative 
Old plainsman shakes the ashes from his 

pipe,— 
An act that breaks the circle 'round the fire. 
A good-night journey to the snow-banked 

barns 
Assures their owner that his animals 
Are snug as he can make them in the storm. 

Unbroken sleep the household cannot know 
This dismal night, for loud above the wind, 



96 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

As wears the night away, there comes the 

sound 
Of ceaseless footfalls, creaking in the snow, 
As countless suffering cattle march in ranks, — 
A bovine army, — lowing, bellowing. 
With hunger, weariness and cold. 

Before 
The icy blast, that drives them on and on, 
They come from their old feeding ground until 
The straggling, scattered numbers grow into 
A solid column, stretching far. The light 
Of morning shows them marching, marching 

still ; 
Still lowing, bellowing, and tramping on 
And on, with heads held low, and swaying 

forms, — 
A moving mass of horns and furry backs, — 
A moving mass of misery and pain. 
The river reached, in their despair, some plunge 
Into its icy depths to die perhaps. 
Perhaps to cross to isles, or farther bank ; 
Some shrinking from its iciness, pursue 
Its winding way a while, then turn to join 
The multitude, — wind driven — and to swell 
Their numbers as they pass again adown 



APRAIRIEIDYL 97 

The prairie fence and near the house where 

they 
Who see and know their wretchedness, cannot 
Abate it in the least. And so they tramp, 
And march, and bellow, till the storm winds 

cease. 

An hour or two before night's shadows fall,-— 
The fury of the storm has lessened, — comes 
A horse and rider to the door, — the two 
Who passed the gate ere yet the storm began. 
Rejoiced to see the stranger safe, both man 
And beast are given food and shelter ; while 
He breaks his long cold fast, the rider tells 
How having placed two blankets underneath 
His saddle it was possible for him 
To wrap himself in one, or else he must 
Have frozen ere he reached the empty shack 
Upon the ''Seven Cross" cattle ranch, which 

men 
Inhabit now and then, and leave with door 
Unlocked, and oftentimes with food supplies,— 
A common custom on the Western plains,— 
To make a stopping place for cattlemen. 
Or cowboys hunting "mavericks" or ''strays," 
Or else to meet the wants of men in straits 



98 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Like his. No food was there, but thankful for 
A fire, he took his faithful steed inside 
The shack, fed him the scanty provender 
He found, and waited for the night to pass. 

At last, the fury of the storm is spent; 
The cheering sun dispels the bitter cold ; 
Communication opens with the world ; 
A messenger to town, returns with mail, — 
With letters long delayed, and papers more 
Than welcome since the storm imprisonment. 
Word also comes of how the people fared; 
Of men confused and blinded by the storm, 
Who lost their way when near the homes they 

sought ; 
Of little children on their way from school, — 
Who said their prayers and laid them down to 

sleep 
Till morning light should show their homes 

to them, — 
Found by the people seeking them, and saved 
As by a miracle. 

The sunlight falls 
Upon the whitened surface of the plains 
With blinding brightness. All around the poor 
Dumb cattle starving stand. Unlike the horse, 



APRAIRIEIDYL 99 

Who paws the snow aside to find the grass 
Beneath, — they know no way to reach the food 
They need. In many places through the fence 
They break, and feed upon the farmers' stacks. 
Or roam the village streets, — a menace to 
Unmounted men, — until the cowboys come 
And with their wiry ponies drive them back 
Among the sheltering bluffs from whence they 
came. 

THE ROUND-UP 

The lovely days of spring have clothed the 

plains 
With fresh, sweet grass, and spread a welcome 

feast 
Before the wandering herds. The cattlemen 
Prepare to "round" their creatures "up," and 

learn 
The loss or profit of the year. For weeks. 
The country to be traversed, and the place 
To meet each day with gathered herds, has 

been 
Decided on, and advertised, that all 
The owners with their men may gather where 

LofC. 



100 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Their cattle range, and do their share of 

work, — 
And claim and brand their property. One 

man, — 
A chosen Captain, — plans and orders all. 
From every side they come with ponies fleet 
Of foot, and trained to hold the struggling 

beasts 
When rider's ropes have checked their utmost 

flight; 
With cowboys skilled in throwing lariats, 
And reading brands obscure, or tampered with ; 
With men to cook, and drive the wagons filled 
With blankets and with food supplies to each 
Day's camping place; with irons that shall 

brand 
The owner's undisputed claim upon 
The luckless calf. Prepared to live upon 
The plains for weeks, — to sleep upon the 

ground 
In blankets wrapped, these hardy plainsmen go 
Far to the eastern limit of the range 
Their cattle feed upon, and "round them up" 
By sending riders on a circuit wide, 
To gather every animal that shows 
A brand belonging to the men for whom 



APRAIRIEIDYL lOI 



They work. A camping place is chosen where 
They wish to have the first day's round-up 

brought, 
And there the cook is found, prepared to feed 
The hungry men. 

The first red streak of dawn 
Is signal for the start, and silently 
The horsemen vanish on their tiring quest, 
Each, with his ground to cover, pointed out. 
The river flows upon the south, — some search 
Its banks ; another party follow up 
A tributary stream, and others scour 
The distant bluffs, and all the land between. 
Well past the hour of noon, the cowboys with 
The herd appear, and men detailed for their 
Relief, ride out to guard the band, while they 
Who gathered them, refresh the inner man. 

Again, a mammoth stage, and actors skilled. 
Around a smouldering fire a group of men 
Are heating irons, each of which shall sear 
Upon the owner's living property. 
Its quaint device. The mounted cowboys, 

spurred. 
With lariats in hand, dash in among 
The herd, and singling out the animals 



102 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

They want, — give chase. The race is short. 

The rope, 
Well thrown, soon stops a creature's flight. 

Half dragged. 
Half running, it is quickly taken where 
The branders wait to do their work. Each man 
Keeps tally of the calves he brands, and so 
The census of the bovine family 
That roams the plains, is taken. Animals 
No longer wanted, are turned back upon 
The range from whence they came; those held 

as beeves. 
Or held to drive upon some other range. 
Must be well guarded, day and night, and men 
Take turns at that. With little change the 

work 
Goes on from day to day. Each camping 

place 
Is chosen for the chance it furnishes 
Of water for the men and animals 
And well for them if it may be a clear 
And flowing stream. This hard exciting life 
Is lived, until the prairies have been scoured 
From Julesburg to the mountain towns, and 

well 



A P R A I R I E I D X L IO3 

Across Wyoming's line. Disbanded then, 
The round-up waits another call. 

IN LATER TIMES 

The years, 
Each coming with its joys and sorrows filled, 
Each leaving evidence of human skill 
And workmanship, have wrought vast changes 

on 
The desert land, since first the little band 
Of pioneers essayed to colonize, 
And rear upon a platform sacred to 
High moral purposes and temperance, 
The homes wherein their children might imbibe 
The principles they most desired for them. 

Adown a lovely valley, wonderful 

For its fertility, and reclaimed from 

Arid land by generous giving of its stream. 

The weakened Poudre flows. The well-tilled 

farms. 
With cosy homes supplied with every need, 
With fields upholding crops luxuriant 
And promising, present a pleasing scene. 

The prairie town, long since a city named, 
Displays with pride its churches and its schools. 



104 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Its fair and happy homes, its well laid streets, 
Its merchants blocks, unmarred by foul saloons. 

From a slight eminence there smiles upon 
The tree-embowered homes, those stately halls 
Of learning, which receive the youth from far 
And near, and send them forth to graft upon 
The budding mind, their teaching and their 
thought. 

The house, commodious and well preserved. 
That 'Tather Meeker" built in early days. 
Still stands, a tribute to his confidence 
In all the glowing prophecies he made 
Concerning Greeley's future destiny. 
The little trees he planted, shade it well ; 
The mountain firs, now tall and stately, stand 
Like sentinels around this home where dwells 
The aged widow, who despite her wound 
And weakness, has survived the horrors of 
The massacre and dread captivity, — 
Survived the daughter who with her endured 
So bravely, hardship, agony and grief. 

The wild rich country which the Utes had held, 
Was taken from them when they massacred 
So mercilessly friends, to them so true. 







o 



^1 

3 C 



-G ."^ ^ 

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APRAIRIEIDYL IO5 

The sacrifice the Agent felt must be 

Before the Utes would go, — would leave their 

land 
For whites to file upon, was not alone 
For him; seven brave young lives with his, 

went out ; 
This was the cruel sacrifice which sent 
The Utes still farther west, and opened up 
The mountain country's vast and untold wealth 
To Colorado. 

Shimmering lakes now dot 
The land ; the artificial lakes that man 
Has made ; the needed reservoirs to aid 
In irrigation schemes. 

Across the plains, 
Connecting house with house, are stretched the 

wires 
JE olus loves to play upon, the wires 
Annihilating loneliness and space 
By bringing spoken messages from far. 

What once was ''range" the settlers cultivate, 
And wild uncared-for herds are driven back 
To ranges people have not limited. 



I06 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Beyond the "fence" which long ago gave up 
Its proud distinction, — homes are reared, and 

one 
May read prosperity's ascending steps 
On many a well tilled farm, by noting how 
The habitations, primitive and small. 
Gave place to dwellings more commodious; — 
The dugout of the bachelor, the cot 
To which he brought his bride, and the fine 

house 
Which marks their greater means and need of 

room. 

Around the home are trees, and flowers, and 

vines, 
And finding covert to their taste, the birds 
Have come, — the dear sweet song birds that we 

love. 
The woodbine-covered porch, song sparrows 

nest 
Upon ; the robin and woodpecker feast 
Where hang its purple berries, and the trees 
Entice full many a welcome songster to 
Their shade, that dearly loves to bathe and 

preen 



A PRAIRIE IDYL , IO7 

Where flows the sparkling, grass-edged cur- 
rent at 
Their roots. 

The scene one looks upon to-day, 
Is not the old monotony of land 
And sky. The signs of labor and of thrift 
Are everywhere, and stretching far beneath 
The eye, the plains like one vast chessboard 

seem, — 
Its squares marked off by differing shades of 

green. 
Or golden blocks, where rank sunflowers tint 
The view. 

The pioneers who bore the toil 
And hardships of those early days, know, — 

more 
Than he who later comes, — the worth of all 
They now enjoy. They love to meet and talk 
The old times o'er, while ringing laughter tells 
How clearly now they see the comic side 
To much that then occurred, — full thirty years 
Ago. The grandeur of the mountains and 
The plains g-rows on beholders day by day, — 
The beauty of these "lifted lands." The joy 
Of Colorado's health-reviving air. 



I08 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

Her azure skies, her cheerful days, her cool 
And restful nights, the full and varied yield 
She harvests from her irrigated lands, 
Her merry children, and her firesides dear, 
Cause many a glad and thankful heart to say 
With pride and full contentment, "This is 
Home." 



THE YUCCA 109 



THE YUCCA. 

Like armored sentinel the Yucca stands, 
As if to guard its sun-burned, dreary lands. 

Its leaves, like bayonets, unyielding- rise, 
'Neath Winter's cold, and Summer's scorching 
skies. 

It falters not for lack of dew or rain. 
But loves the rugged bluff, the wind-swept 
plain. 

Alone, or grouped, where e'er is cast its lot, 
Unsocial, grim, and stern, it guards the spot. 

Beneath its bristling armor hides away, — 
Like noble warrior, ruled by Duty's sway, — 

A heart of tender beauty. When comes June, 
With youth, and love, and gladness all in tune, 

The Yucca's bells, abundant, creamy, fair, 
Unfold, and fling their fragrance on the air. 



no PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 



PRAIRIE DOG TOWN. 

Out on the prairies so boundless and wide, 
This way, or that way, or which way we ride, 
Come we to settlements lying around. 
Where many settlers together are found 
In their snug houses, deep under the ground. 
Every house guarded about by a mound. 

Lively, and chirping, and frisky and brown, — 
Come see the settlers of Prairie Dog Town ; 
Dark are their homes where they hide, when 

they may, — 
Dearly they love the warm light of the day ; 
Out in the sunshine they visit and play ; 
Hither and thither to neighbors they stray. 

Deep are their holes, "Down to water," 't is 

said, — 
Out from the nearest one pops a brown head ; 
See him stand up like an image and wait, — 
Maybe he listens for one who is late, 
Maybe he lingers to welcome his mate, — 
Some pretty Prairie Dog ''Down by the gate." 



PRAIRIE DOG TOWN HI 

Living in colonies all of their days, 
Social, and pretty, and cute are their ways,— 
Out of his hole like a clumsy old clown. 
Shaking his tail, with a chirp he is down ; 
Lively and chirping, and frisky and brown,— 
These are the settlers of Prairie Dog Town. 



112 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 



THE MOUNTAIN STREAM 

The stream down rocky canyons leaps, 
And in its channel onward sweeps, 
Till held and barred, it turns its way. 
Where man's own power and skill may say, 
And unto gardens, farms and fields. 
The treasure of its own self yields. 

And now it sings through countless ditches ; 
Upspring bright flowers, like winsome witches, 
And nod at their own mirrored ranks. 
Reflected from the verdant banks; 
Its busy way, where e'er it goes, 
The gladdened face of nature shows. 

Like hosts drawn up in war's array. 
The cacti long had held the way; 
Their thorns like bayonets pierced the air. 
Till water came and conquered there, 
And changed the desert, lone and drear, 
To homes and gardens, full of cheer. 



A MAY-TIME PICTURE II3 



A MAY-TIME PICTURE. 

From cushions of crimson the sun arose, beam- 
ing 
With gladness and hght on the beautiful 
earth ; 

She waved her green banners all daintily 
gleaming 
With the buds and the flowers to which May- 
time gives birth. 

The snow-covered peaks of the mountains re- 
flected 

The rainbow-hued tints which the sunlight 
found there, 

And into the picture a beauty projected, 
As bright and as grand as the morning was 
fair. 

Oh, beautiful May-time! Oh, crimson-hued 
morning ! 
What poet, or painter, can pencil thy 
charms ? 
The earth like a maiden for bridal adorning. 
The sun like the lover who woes to his arms. 



114 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

The flower-dotted prairie, the glimmering 
river, 
The deep azure sky and the sun's golden 
light, 
The lovely green trees with their leaves all 
a-quiver, 
And the glittering mountains, so stately and 
white. 

But over the brightness a shadow is stealing; 
The tops of the mountains are hidden in haze 
And soon o'er the valley, like chariots wheeling, 
The wind-wafted storm-clouds obscure the 
sun's rays. 
We sigh that the beauty and gladness are fad- 
ing; 
We count not the blessings the shadows may 
bear; 
Forget that the Power directing the shading. 
May hold for our winning the crown victors 
wear. 

Still dark grow the heavens, and low clouds 
hang o'er us ; 
When lo, what a happy unlooked-for sur- 
prise ! 



A MAY-TIME PICTURE US 

All, all of the beauties of May-time before us, 
Receive new enchantment, direct from the 
skies. 
For out of the gloom and the somberness 
sailing, 
As hopes, pure and bright, from our sorrows 
are born. 
To drape the fair earth with a soft bridal 
veiling, 
The white, fleecy snow-flakes, the picture 
adorn. 

Upon the green branches, so gracefully cluster- 
ing, 
So lovingly kissed the velvety grass; 
And now to the banks of the river-bed muster- 
ing. 
And throwing bright gleams to the waters 
that pass; 
As pure as the flowers whose leaves they are 
hiding, 
As fair as the loveliest blossoms of May, 
So frail in their beauty, and never abiding, 
How soon like the mists, they will vanish 
away. 



Il6 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

The cloud passes by, and the sun's thrilUng 
kisses, 
Descend to the gladdened and jubilant earth, 
And whispers of beauty, contentment and 
blisses, 
Are caught in the winged warbler's singing 
and mirth. 
Oh, beautiful May-time, and beautiful morn- 
ing,— 
The morn of the day, and the morn of the 
year,— 
How full and complete in their lovely adorn- 
ing, 
The lights and the shadows have made thee 
appear. 



SONGS FOR THE MONTHS 1 17 

SONGS FOR THE MONTHS. 

JANUARY 

January, cold and bright, 

Comes with smiles to view us ; 
As the old year fades from sight, 
With a radiant, hopeful light. 

Brings the new year to us. 

Sigh we for the seasons gone? 

Better ones may meet us ; 
Hopes the brightest, lead us on. 
And some blessed, happy morn. 

Glad fruition greet us. 

FEBRUARY 

February, keen and cold; 

Sun of dazzling brightness ; 
Naked prairies, brown and old, 
Towering mountain peaks that hold 

High their frigid whiteness. 

February's lovely skies. 

Blue as those of summer; 
Where the chatty blackbird flies. 
And the jay's discordant cries. 

Greet the strolling comer. 



Il8 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

MARCH 

March, a merry, boisterous chap, 
'Round the corners whistHng; 
Tries the window with a rap, 
Makes the schoolboy chase his cap. 
Sets the straw stack bristHng ; 

Fills the air with whirling snow, 

Sends the sleet storm, stinging ; 
Scatters clouds that hover low, 
Wakes the meadow lark, and so 
Fills the air with singing. 

APRIL 

April is a fickle maid, 

Full of light coquetting; 
O'er her face she draws a shade, 
And with tears her part is played, 
Merriment forgetting. 

Now she casts her clouds aside, 
Beaming bright with blisses ; 

Smiles she has no wish to hide. 

Waken lilies far and wide, 
As their lips she kisses. 



SONGS FOR THE MONTHS Iig 

MAY 

May, a blithesome, bonnie lass, 

With a rare completeness. 
Dots with flowers the springing grass, 
Bids the orchard's petaled mass, 

Fill the air with sweetness. 

Spreads a feast for lowing herds ; 

Waves the green leaf banners ; 
Till her morning choir of birds, 
Sing their anthems without words, 

With their gayest manners. 

JUNE 

June, a fairy maiden, sings 

Over hill and valley ; 
Wealth of flowers bright, she brings. 
And the sweetest, dearest things, 

All around her rally. 

Yucca's creamy, drooping bells, 

Deck the wand she carries; 
Tinted fields, and honeyed cells, — 
Rippling streams, and shaded dells, — 

There, she laughing, tarries. 



I PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

JULY 

Elder sister fair, of June; 

More sedate, less charming; 
Changing all her merry tune 
To a droning, soothing croon, 

Life and laughter calming. 

Floral beauties, here and there, 
Ragged grown, and seedy; 
Brilliant new ones everywhere, — 
Flowers that bloom in gardens fair, 
Gracing acres weedy. 

A UGUST 

Burning skies and scorching sands, 
Mountain peaks, snow-whitened ; 
And the arid, desert lands, 
By the faithful work of hands, 
Marvelously brightened. 

Wondrous prairies, bounty crowned, 

By the generous river; 
Purpling, whitening fields abound, — 
Lights and shadows, all around, — 

Colors all a-quiver. 




.s - 



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O J2 



SONGS FOR THE MONTHS 121 

SEPTEMBER 

Roadside edged with purple bloom, 
Brown-eyed sunflowers nod there, 
And the weed-grown thicket's gloom, 
Brightened by the feathery plume. 
Of the golden rod there. 

Curving to the breeze that steals, — 

Like a purple ocean, — 
Once again alfalfa yields 
Wealth of honeyed fragrance, — fields 

Full of billowy motion. 

OCTOBER 

Hamlet like, on every side. 

Stacks immense, are clustered; 
Stubble stretching far and wide, 
Whence the beauty, wealth and pride, 
Ruthlessly was mustered. 

From the wintry peaks of snow, 

Falls the frost breath freezing; 
Early, summer's treasures go, 
With their beauty and their glow, 
And their power of pleasing. 



122 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 

NOVEMBER 

Foliage falling brown and sere, 

Indian summer weather 
Crowns the waning of the year ; 
In the sunshine, warm and clear. 

All things joy together. 

Feathered gleaners homeward fly 
To their winter quarters ; 

Blue crows to the village hie; 

Blackbirds flit, and chirp, and cry, 
By the flowing waters. 

DECEMBER 

O'er the prairies sparkling bright. 
With their frost adornings. 

Flashing from the mountains white. 

Full of rainbow-tinted light. 
Break December mornings. 

Land of color! Sunny skies! 

Depth of blue, unclouded; 
Checkered plains, and rocks that rise. 
Tinted bright with varied dyes. — 

Sleeping, snow-enshrouded. 



LOSTG 5 PZaS 133 



LOXG S F 



17 J ^^ 



GraiHL iiuglily 

\\Tiere Xar 



U-, 



A land-mark is tfay glistenii^ head, soow- 
crowned. 

Held upward to the hhie. o'er -t . 5ky; 

The swee:e5: ^ ers upon 3m Ke; 

With :' 5:0: - ^t is 

With i:re<: :rer<. thy waist 15 r :: : 

Ari srre: :^ c" vtotorr : by. 



124 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 



A SUNSET SCENE. 

The mountains stretch along the western sky, 

A scalloped cloud, a bank of darkest blue ; 

Their peaks have hid the setting sun from 
view; 
Upon the earth, the lengthened shadows lie ; 
The young moon sails her silvery crescent nigh. 

And Venus comes, to tryst with twilight 
true. 

Above the summits, clouds of gorgeous hue. 
Have draped their sunset-tinted canopy. 

The King of Day withdraws his lingering 
beams ; 
From out the sky the dark'ning colors fade ; 
A brooding quiet, soft and restful seems 
To gently fall, as falls the evening shade ; 
The heavens with twinkling, watching stars 
are laid. 
And Slumber leads the world to peaceful 
dreams. 



A WINTER MORNING 12$ 



A WINTER MORNING. 

White gleams the earth, o'erlaid with Winter's 
snows ; 
Sharp stings the air, frost-crystalled, still 

and clear ; 
Far distant objects, not so far appear; 
Athwart the East, Aurora crimson glows ; 
Across the sky she lightly, deftly throws, 
To western mountain peaks that proudly 

rear. 
Her bright ''Good Morning," till, her 
beauty's peer 
They stand, reflecting amethyst and rose. 



126 PEN PICTURESOF THE PLAINS 



VICTORY. 

Afar, above the vast, brown, rolling plains, 
The mountains rear their heads, serene and 

grand, 
A tower of strength and beauty in the land. 

There, crowned with snow so pure, all regal 
reigns 

The lofty peak which greatest height attains; 
Fair sister peaks appear on every hand. 
Like shrouded, ghostly sentinels they stand. 

Defying him, who yon proud summit gains. 

He who has striven, conquered, all Life's way. 
Like him who looks on peaks and plains 
below, — 
Stands, touched by earliest beams of coming 
day. 
His features radiant with the welcome glow ; 
And they who look upon, and love him, know 
They see great Victor's resplendent ray. 




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73 






THE MOUNTAINS SPEAK TO ME 127 



THE MOUNTAINS SPEAK TO ME, 

The mountains speak to me ; at dawn of day 
When tinted by the morning's rosy fire, 
They seem to say, ''Dear child, come higher, 
higher ! 

Above the toil-worn, dusty, weary way, 

Uplift thine eyes, thy thoughts, and catch a ray, 
To waken thee, — to bid thy soul aspire; 
Press on, and win each lofty, pure desire, — 

Arise, and with the morning sing thy lay." 

All through the day the mountains speak to 

me; 
Blue-based, white-peaked, against the azure 

sky 
They stand in calm, majestic purity, 

Their beauty touched by lights that gleam 

and die; 
My longing soul, adoring, awed, must cry, 
"From Thy grand mountains to Thyself, 

more nigh." 



128 PEN PICTURES OF THE PLAINS 



TWILIGHT. 

The day is fading. On a cloudless sky 
The sun reflects a mellow, golden light, 
That dims not Venus' beauty silvery bright. 
First of the starry train, she hovers nigh. 
To bid the dear, departing day, ''Good by." 
As if to guard her exit from the land, 
Sharply outlined, the purple mountains stand. 
And rear with grace and strength, their heads 
on high. 

Night's gathering shadows, trooping from 
afar. 

Advance, and mark each movement with a star ; 

Till, like the magic of a lovely dream, 

She, with her myriad star-gems, reigns su- 
preme ; 

So Twilight, does thy wondrous, peaceful 
hour. 

Proclaim anew, God's miracle of power. 



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